


Water to Fire

by bugheadjones



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 10:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11689980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugheadjones/pseuds/bugheadjones
Summary: He sits up straight in the chair, never breaking the contact, and nods, silently hoping that she'll get the point of the stare, knowing that, if he was the type, he'd thank her.





	Water to Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal in 2016. It was written as part of a challenge based on a lyric and item. 
> 
> Lyric: "my mind's on fire" from Flaming Telepath  
> Item: A quilt made by a character's grandmother
> 
> I don't own these characters. I'm just playing with them.

He really hadn't planned to spend his weekend alone going through forgotten boxes in the attic of the once occupied house, but, when he gets to a box labeled "Cassidy's things," and he's run out of his third bottle of high priced vodka, he prefers the emptiness. The box is freshly labeled because he can smell the magic marker and, when he touches the name, it smears black against his thumb and the label. He tries another and then another for good measure and, when only one of them smears, and the other, labeled "Grandma Casablancas' things" doesn't, he realizes that someone boxed up his things without telling him. He would have known if he had even stepped foot inside or even past the room, but, over the last few months, he's found himself spending less and less time in the house and more and more time in various homes and beds.  
  
He contemplates going to get a new bottle, or shipment, of something, anything to dull the pain, but, as his hand opens one flap of the box, he stops thinking all together and opens the other flap. When he starts lifting out the contents and almost, just barely, smelling his brother's usual scent, he starts to feel as if he's in some sort of purgatory, even if he can barely remember what that word even means. He doesn't know how his brother's room was cleared out and how the boxes made it to the attic, but he thinks he'd rather be in a dark, dusty room instead of a bright one that would definitely smell like him. If he thanked people, he would thank whoever boxed up his things and saved him the pain of going into the room.   
  
He doesn't even know why he's there when he could just get rid of it all and move on, but, when he lifts out a broken robot with a faded label that played tapes with stories on them, he's hit with a wave of memories that were probably more his brother's than his. The toy was originally his, but, when he decided, at five years old, that he didn't like listening to stories all that much, he gave it to his brother one day. Cassidy was only three at the time, but it could occupy him for hours. Once, when he was seven, and the thing still worked, he pointed out that there was a mispronounced word on one of the tapes. That was the same day that Dick decided to stomp on it to shut him up for being smarter than he was. If he wasn't half drunk or not even half thinking, he would have broken down by now. He places the toy next to him and reaches into the box to retrieve the next item his hand reaches.   
  
\---  
  
Four hours later he has a ton of Cassidy's things scattered around him and in his lap lies a medium-sized framed photo of the once seemingly perfect family. He's completely sober by now and the house is so silent that, if he tried hard enough, he could hear the tears stream down his face. The silence is unbareable for all of the five minutes it takes to find a box of old records and tapes and a place to plug in the player in the corner of the room. He doesn't pay attention to the record he puts on, but, when the needle touches the surface and he can hear it above his grief, it doesn't matter if he's not going to like it.  
  
The music fills his ears and, despite his initial distaste, he begins to hum along. He's heard the song somewhere before and, if he was a deep thinker, or even wanted to know where, he'd know that the album he put on just happened to be a favorite of his fathers. As it is, he blames his dad for the whole thing, and, if he did know what was playing and its significance to his father, he'd throw the whole player through the window a hundred feet away from him.   
  
He settles back onto the floor as well as he can and tries to stretch his legs out in front of him. He has to kick broken toys and books out of his way, but, when he can finally relax into the wood, he doesn't care if some of the last items that could remind of him of his brother are as broken or as tattered as he was the whole time and as he is now.   
  
He leans forward just enough to reach for the box of things his mother left in the house when she stormed out after the finalized divorce. He knows he'll find it in the box, or else his father would have had it publicly shred. He reaches in and, when his fingers find the scratchy yarn blanket, he grabs it and yanks it out of the box, scattering a trinket of jewelry around the room. He lays down on the floor and covers himself, knowing, but not caring, that he'll be sore and stiff in the morning, or whenever he wakes up. He doesn't even know what time it is and, if the record is any indication, it's only been two songs worth since he put it on and he was up there a few hours before he even touched a single box.   
  
When the yarn starts to scratch his arms, he tries to will himself to sleep and hopes that he'll dream of days when his mother actually loved him and kept the blanket on his parents bed at all times. The music is too distracting and his eyes snap open so he stares at the blanket. It was made by his grandmother on his dad's side and given to his mom. The colors are simple and few, but perfectly blended together. He was twelve when his parents divorced, Cassidy just barely ten. The colors were supposed to represent the four of them - light blue for him, pastel green for Cassidy, a pale pink for his mother, and a dark blue for his father - and, if he looks close enough, he'd be able to see the four names weaved into the end of one of the squares. When the record starts to skip and the colors blend together, in and out of his hazy sight, he thinks that he likes the repetitive nature of most things in his life up until this point, before he was complicated. He couldn't remember the day his mother left anyway so it never felt out of the ordinary for her to not be around.   
  
\---  
  
When he wakes up, sunlight is slightly shining through the small window on the opposite end of the room. He cracks his eyes open little by little, willing himself to wake up completely, yet slowly, and the record is still skipping. He leans up a bit and rests his weight on his elbows, looking around the room once before standing up completely. When his stomach rumbles, he decides that, despite the probably late grieving process, he needs food to continue. He sways a little as he begins to walk towards the door that's open in the floor and takes a step at a time walking down the ladder before loudly walking through the house. He wants to make as much noise as possible, or for there to be as much noise as possible, but, when the doorbell rings, he winces at how loud it really is.   
  
He walks to the front door, kicking at and succeeding in breaking yet another game system, and swings it open with an inward groan of irritation of not being alone anymore. He leans against the door frame when he sees her, waiting for her to notice that he has opened the door, and watches her twirl a strand of red hair around her index finger. He clears his throat and she jumps, startled, and turns to him with wide eyes. She looks him up and down, taking in his disheveled appearance, and blushes a little when she passes by his boxer-clad thighs. He smirks at her innocence, knowing that he's far from it and also knowing that, even when he looks as horrible as he probably does, he can still make a girl blush.   
  
Her eyes snap to his face and she sighs, letting go of the strand of hair and running the hand through strands of brown and red. He decides to finally tell her to leave or come in because the sun is killing his eyes and he thinks he now knows what a vampire feels like when it goes out in the sunlight. He starts to speak at the same time she opens her mouth and settles with gesturing wilding into the house. She seems to take the hint and steps into the house, giving him enough room to shut the door behind her, and walks a little further in when he does. For some reason, he places his hand at the small of her back and gives her a gentle push towards the sitting area. He's surprised when she doesn't jump at the contact and, if he was still dreaming, he'd swear that she relaxed a little under his touch.   
  
He lifts his hand from her back and gestures in front of him to the love seat and sits down in a chair across from it. Before he asks her what she's there for, he thinks he knows the answer. He asks anyway, thinking that he'll be nice, since he was completely awake and not near as sore as he thought he would be, and waits for her answer. His eyes are planted on her face, taking in the still faint blush on her cheeks, the dark blue eyes, and the glossy, surprisingly plump lips. He mentally slaps himself for the thought and really hopes that he isn't showing any sort of attraction.   
  
She makes eye contact with him when she answers him, telling him something about leaving something in Cassidy's room, and it dawns on him why the writing on the label didn't look familiar. He doesn't want to know when or why or how Kendall or whoever talked her into packing up the room, but, if he was the type, he'd thank her. It was easier going through six boxes rather than a large room. He sits up straight in the chair, never breaking the contact, and nods, silently hoping that she'll get the point of the stare, knowing that, if he was the type, he'd thank her.   
  
She seems to take his nod as an invitation to get whatever out of the room and she slowly gets up and starts to walk towards the stairs. He gets up and, instead of following her, he goes to the kitchen and takes some aspirin and downs a whole bottle of water. He decides to let her leave on her own and walks towards the attic again, food suddenly not sounding so great.   
  
He's in the attic for maybe ten minutes when she pops her head in. He doesn't hear her step onto the floor or sit next to him, but, when she clears her throat, he snaps his head to look at her and almost smiles at the confused expression on her face. She cocks an eyebrow and gestures with her head to the record player. His eyes, and ears, follow hers and he grins, looking back at her and shrugging. He really doesn't know why he hasn't kicked it, thrown it, stopped it, or done anything to it. He doesn't make a move to do anything to it now either, maybe just to irritate her. They both reach for various items scattered about the floor and, one by one and two by two, they place the random items back in the boxes. They don't talk for hours, but, when the sun sets and they're still there, the record still skipping in the background, she starts to talk.   
  
\---  
  
His mouth is gaping open, in a fashion that he is sure isn't attractive, even on him, when she mentions something about a baby switch. He stifles a laugh when she tells him with whom and she punches him in the arm when his eyes sweep over her body. If she wasn't his dead little brother's girlfriend, he'd admit to himself that she didn't have that bad of a body, she was much curvier than Madison in all areas other than her chest, and he could definitely settle for more curves and less breasts. She punches him in the arm again when she notices him still staring at her and he laughs, pouting and holding his arm in mock pain, and puts another item in the box sitting in front of him.   
  
An hour later, according to her watch, she stands and walks over to the record player. Before she can pick up the needle, his hand settles on top of hers and pulls it away. He mentions something about the song growing on him and he starts singing along with the line, over and over for about twenty minutes before she hits him with a bag she didn't walk in with. She sits indian-style on the now clear floor and presses her palms into her ears, staring at him like he's the craziest person in the world. He sits across from her, slowly stopping with the vocals, and they stare at each other while the record continues its skipping.   
  
He starts to talk again, mentioning the boxes, never completely thanking her. He leans up a little and opens a box again, telling her about every and item he takes out. As the dust settles around them, he sighs and collapses onto the blanket beside them and he really isn't surprised when she does the same. They drift off to sleep and awake, to the sun slightly coming in through the window, and the skipping record assaulting their ears once again.   
  
_my mind's on fire, my mind's on fire, my mind's on fire, my mind's on fire, my mind's on fire, my mind's on fire._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
